When Day is Done | Page 3

for those who do not waver;?The world needs men to battle for the truth.?It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.?This is the age for those who still have youth!
Looking Back
I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships
I've made.?I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I
purposely played.?Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking
backward to see?What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that
has happened to me.
I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my
name,?And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of
fame.?But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the
birds and the trees;?I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures
as these.
I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and
we've played,?And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that
I might have made.?I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits
of men;?And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life
over again.
I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with
all of its tears;?I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've
squandered my years.?For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to
my best,?And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might
have possessed.
God Made This Day for Me
Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort of sky?Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist,?With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist?That the Lord who made us humans an' the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o' weather an' he made this day fer me.
This is jes' my style o' weather--sunshine floodin' all the place, An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face; An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.?Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,?An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.
It's my day, my sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze-- Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please: Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere,?Like a weddin' celebration--why, I've plumb fergot my care?An' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be,?While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me.
The Grate Fire
I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see?In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be. If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze?He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays,?Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.
When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays.?I can leave the present burdens and the moment's bit of woe, And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long-ago.
No loved ones ever vanish from the grate fire's merry throng; No hands in death are folded and no lips are stilled to song. All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.
I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too! I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew, I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends. All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, And I'm sorry for the fellow-who sees nothing there but flame.
The Homely Man
Looks as though a cyclone hit him--?Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;?An' his cheeks are rough like leather,?Made for standin' any weather.?Outwards he was fashioned plainly,?Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,?But I'd give a lot if I'd?Been